Because you pretended
to like my playhouse.
I tried to lock you in
but my three year old body
could not brace
you back enough
to make you stay.
Because you kept secrets
in your suitcase
during work trips.
And I wanted to know
what you kept in there.
So I listened
behind closed doors.
I would graze my hands
over your face;
prickly and the color
of pumpkins.
And I longed for you
to stay home this time.
Why would you need
to go to work
when it rained?
Because you took the chair
we used to sit on
when we played
with cow puppets.
I still have one.
Because you were my dad,
and I was your first child.
You showed up late
to your mother's funeral.
All because my stepmother
was too busy
mourning the loss
of her iced coffee.
That's not the father
that I used to try and lock
in my playhouse.
Because you never
called me back
when i apologized
for asking too much.
Because you
left
lied
cheated
manipulated
and lost your daughter.
But still
I can't
bring myself
to say
it was your fault.
Maybe it was your brain tumor
slowly ******* away
at your morality.
Maybe it was my
inability to cope
with catastrophe
as a child.
Maybe it
was too much
to be caught
in a place
you never wanted to be in.
Or maybe it's just life.